


Darkened Lines

by Bolt41319



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, LoveFromOQ2021
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29443611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bolt41319/pseuds/Bolt41319
Summary: Robin Locksley is an artist who finds himself working with the owner of the well known Red Apple Gallery, Regina Mills. And while he's heard of her reputation before, he's shocked to meet the true woman behind her pristine exterior.
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Robin Hood
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13
Collections: Love From OQ





	Darkened Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RegalLove2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RegalLove2/gifts).



> Happy Valentines Day!! @RegalLove2 I hope you enjoy and have a fantastic day!

All that stands between him and The Red Apple Gallery is a gorgeous panel of stained glass, dark lines separating the deep reds and greens of an apple tree that decorates the front. The glass is immaculate, his hand tracing over ridged lines beneath his fingertips. The winter wind whips around him, a chill down to his bones, but he cannot help himself from admiring the rich colors, the pure dedication that’s gone into such a large piece of artwork. 

With his portfolio tucked under his arm he waits for a string of people to exit, catching tail ends of their conversation about the  _ beautiful sculpted centerpiece  _ and he clutches at the handle, one foot lifted to go through the doorway, and hesitates. 

His pitch meeting starts in 15 minutes. He’s got enough time to turn back, call in with some half-assed ridiculous excuse to mask his own self-doubt, but before he can allow himself another thought to the matter, someone behind him scoffs out an annoyed  _ “Excuse me”,  _ and his eyes meet the most stunning woman he’s ever seen. 

Blimey, she looks familiar. 

“Sorry,” he steps back, holding the door open as the woman steps through, her back perfectly straight, posture poised as she eyes him once over and flashes him a smile, and before he can stop himself any further, he follows her inside.

The art lining the walls is absolutely fantastic, a vast array of bright colors and perfect paint strokes catching his eye with every turn. His portfolio feels heavy beneath his arm as he silently compares his own work to those around him, but he shakes himself out of it —  _ she _ called this meeting.  _ She _ sought him out, over all others who had displayed their art at the pop-up gallery back in November. 

Regina Mills. 

He’s heard tale of the woman. She’s fierce, feisty, not one to be reckoned with, and a bit of a mystery. He tried searching her on the web before their meeting but came up short, only sites for the gallery and few interviews with the same, mundane, pompous answers. It was her assistant that had reached out to him about a month ago, asking to set up a meeting between them. It was odd— he’s heard of her gallery before, and while he’s appreciative of her offer, the pieces that he’s heard about and now sees around him are not in a style that he would compare to his own. 

But she saw something in him. Something in his work, in the chaotic lines and messy scribbles that he takes pride in. 

There is a front desk off to the side that he steps up to, waiting patiently for the red-haired woman to finish on the phone, scanning the piece of art behind the desk. 

It’s exceptionally large, the painting taking up the width of the desk and at least four feet tall. It’s impressive, really, the ability to take a canvas and transform it into a masterpiece filled with clean lines and smooth colorful blends. There’s a small signature scribbled in the corner, something he can’t quite make out, but before he had the chance to lean closer and take it in, there’s a brash “Can I help you?” that pulls him away. 

“Names Locksley,” he spouts back. “Robin Locksley. I’m here for a meeting with Regina Mills.” 

The redhead raises an eyebrow, reaches down and flips open a heavy black notebook, her long painted nail skimming along the page until she stops and presses down with a loud, “Ha!” 

“Found you,” she smirks. “Robin Locksley, 1pm. You were the artist from that pop-up. The one with the pencil sketches.” 

Robin nods, holding his portfolio up with a head nod toward it. “That’s me.” 

“I  _ liked _ those,” the woman leans forward, eyeing up his folder as she sets her elbows on the countertop. “Regina did too. She and I have been traveling around the city looking for different pieces, something to change up the decor around here, and yours stood out tremendously.” 

“Well, I—” he starts.

“Now now, come on deary,” she cuts him off, coming around the counter and heading toward a staircase. “Regina’s just upstairs, and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” 

Robin shakes his head and trails behind the firecracker, rushing to keep up with her long, quick strides. 

“My sister is a bit hard around the edges, but don’t let her bully you. She means well, I swear.” 

“Mrs. Mills is your sister?” 

“Sister In-law, technically,” she tells him. “But I’ve known Regina for god… half of our lives, at least. But trust me, you’ll do just fine.” The woman stops at a bright red door at the top of the staircase, her hand curling around a polished silver doorknob, and she turns back to him with a sharp gaze. “You’re ready, yeah?” 

“Don’t have much choice in the matter now, do I?” Robin quips. “Would look like a right idiot if I bailed.” 

The woman grins at him and nods her head. “Oh, you’ll fit right in,” she tells him, before pushing open the door. 

.::.

Her back is turned from the door, her eyes focused on the scene out the window. 

Her meeting starts soon, another pitch, another person sitting in front of her inevitably pouring their heart out through their art, trying to buy a spot on her wall. It’s a feeling of power that she holds onto, sometimes looks forward to that moment when someone brings in their own personal masterpiece and puts it on display. She’s heard rumors that they call her vicious,  _ evil,  _ that her taste is far too refined compared to her competitors, and that makes her impossible to work with. But she sees no fault in her actions, in her ability to determine which art is quality enough for her studio. 

Regina was sure about him, this  _ Robin Locksley. _ She’s heard practically nothing about him, but something about his work drew her in. He was displayed at a pop-up back in Sherwood, one that Zelena had dragged her to, though she was reluctant at first. Scoping out different galleries wasn’t her idea of finding new pieces - that was typically her sister's way of working the circuit. But on a road trip Zelena had begged her to stop, and she was intrigued by the dark lines of his art, the rough edges and messy scribbles that came together to represent more than just a person. 

Adding his art to her typical collection seemed like a dark cloud in bright blue skies, but as she stood in front of it, contemplating the beauty behind each well traced stroke, she wanted to know more. 

She can hear Zelena’s loud voice outside the door and she turns in her chair, stands up and straightens out the slight wrinkle in the hem of her dress, pushes back a stubborn strand of hair and pauses as the handle jitters, and the door swings open. 

.::.

“Mr. Locksley.”

Well, shit. 

Serves him right that the woman he’d looked like an idiot in front of when he’d opened the door earlier would be the one standing before him now. 

“Ms. Mills,” he steps forward, holding his hand out. He can hear the door click shut behind him, the loud woman disappearing back down the hall, and he finds himself alone with the most beautiful woman he’s seen. He feels underdressed compared to her, the pristine lines of her dress, the way her hair lies perfectly along her face. 

He tried to look nice — it is a business meeting after all, and while he’s never been one to seek out gratification from someplace such as a formal gallery, a paycheck and commission never hurts. 

She steps forward and slips her soft hand into his with a firm shake, and she flashes him a grin. “It’s nice to meet you Mr. Locksley.” 

“Robin,” he interjects. “Please. Mr. Locksley makes me feel like my father.” 

She laughs and gives him a once over and a nod. “Right then,  _ Robin,”  _ she says, and it rolls off her tongue. “Have a seat. You’ve brought your portfolio, yes?”

He sits back into the chair at her desk, props his portfolio up onto his knees and rummages through the folder. “I was looking downstairs before Zelena brought me up at some of your other works downstairs. I have to admit Ms. Mills, what I have here and what you’re promoting down there aren’t that…” 

“Similar? I’m aware,” she smirks, crossing her legs and leaning back in her seat, a bit of her bare thigh peeking out beneath her dress. “I have to tell you Robin, when Zelena and I saw your work in Sherwood, I was taken aback by it.” 

Robin pauses, his hand wrapped around the first piece he’d wanted to show her. “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.” 

She purses her lips and looks narrowingly at him, clasping her hands to rest them on her knees. “Your work is interesting. I’ve spent my life surrounded by masterpiece after masterpiece, each art unique in its own way. But yours is, well,” she pauses, watching him carefully. “Yours is dark.” 

Nothing she says is untrue. 

“My mother used to tell me my art was my feelings expressed on paper. I didn’t think I was that trapped though. I just liked the lines, that feeling of my pencil pressed to paper. Pens too, sometimes. The lines are darker, messier. Colors are much my thing but I’ve played around with them. I brought some different works,” he pulls out the first one, a drawing of a couple tangled together in a mix of graphite and colored pencil that he’s quite proud of. “ I think this would fit well, with what you have downstairs.” 

Ms. Mills leans forward, her fingers lightly tracing over the lines, her brow furrowed. “This isn’t what I had in mind. Here, let me see,” she asks, reaching her hand out for his portfolio. “Can I flip through?” 

He hands the folder over and she grins, opening it up flat on her desk. She turns through each piece  _ so  _ slowly, carefully inspecting each drawing before her. There is no emotion of her face, nothing to tell of whether or not she actually likes what she sees - just the occasional  _ hmm _ , and some sort of ranking system as she sorts the illustrations before her into two separate piles. 

“Have you been promoted in a gallery before?” 

“Once,” he tells her. “But it was a messy situation, and I was much younger back then. I mostly stick to pop-ups and commissioned pieces.” 

She  _ hmm _ ’s again and he sits, waiting, watching as she pulls out a piece and holds it up. 

It’s one of his larger pieces, a more ‘rough around the edges’ piece that he’d created back in the beginning of his career. The drawing shows a woman standing on the balcony, her eyes closed and arms cast out to the sides, head fallen back. The scene around her is wicked, with tree’s falling, leaves and rain whipping around her, but the woman looks calm, content with the chaos that surrounds her. 

“This one,” she claims, turning it around. “We’re going to start with this one.” 


End file.
